“If it’s any consolation, he did try to help,” I said, then shrugged. “A little. I don’t know. Maybe give it some time, talk to him. You might be able to work something out.”
“Yeah.” Caldera pushed a set of stapled sheets of paper across to me. “All right. Take a look at these.”
I flipped the report around, started reading it, blinked, skipped to the end. “Smuggling?”
“Yeah, looks like there’s a new source of meld. We had a handle on it for a while, but seems like a new supplier’s got into the market. Best guess is it’s coming from Thailand.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with White Rose?”
“Not really.”
“So . . . we just go on to the next job?”
“What were you expecting?” Caldera said. “Victory parade?”
“Would have been nice.”
Caldera snorted. “How’d you think this was going to go? It was just a case. They come and they go. Some are easy, some are hard. But you know what they’ve all got in common?”
I looked at Caldera, interested. “What?”
“They end,” Caldera said. “And you go back to your desk and start the next one.” She shook her head. “You still think like an independent, Verus. There’s trouble, you fix it, and everything goes back to normal. But that’s not how it works now you’re in the Keepers. For us, this is normal.”
“Mm. By the way?”
“What?”
“You can call me Alex.”
Caldera gave me a curious look. After a moment, she nodded.
We sat in silence for a little while, broken only by the rustle of paper as I turned the pages. “Do you think what we did to White Rose will change anything?” I asked.
“Short term?” Caldera said. “Sure. Longer term?” She shrugged. “Demand’s still there. People are still the same. You can make things a little better if you work at it. But in the end, nothing really changes.”
I thought about that for a moment. I remembered the Keepers, and the feeling of sitting in the Belfry, watching the mages of the Light Council go about their business. Even in the middle of everything that had happened, there had been a sense of inertia there, a stability. It was easy to believe it would always be the same. Caldera was paging through the report, distracted, and all around us, the bureaucracy of the Keepers hummed quietly. It didn’t feel any different.
At least, not yet.
| | | | | | | | |
It was a month later.
The Conclave is a semicircular amphitheatre, the largest of the three chambers at the heart of the War Rooms. Gold leaf covered the domed roof above, and gilt-framed paintings and works of art looked down from between velvet curtains. I’d never been inside the Conclave before. Usually the room is forbidden to all but an inner circle of Light mages, but there are a very few events where the gates are (reluctantly) opened to outsiders. This was one of them.
The room was crowded. Mages sat in rows at the curving benches, while those who hadn’t been able to get a seat stood in the stairs or at the back. Security was everywhere, Council operatives and Keepers standing at vantage points at the lower levels and scanning the crowd from the balconies above. I could feel the presence of literally hundreds of defensive wards and spells, but few of the mages seemed to be paying attention to them. Everyone was focused on the stage below.
Thirteen chairs stood at the centre of the stage, one row of seven, slightly raised, and a second row of six in front and below. Ten of the chairs were occupied. One of the ten people was Levistus, sitting still and silent. The other nine I’d never seen before. All wore elaborate mage robes; none were young. The one thing all shared was that each of them wore a simple gold chain over their shoulders. These were the Junior and Senior Councils, the leaders of the Light mages of Britain, and collectively they wielded more power than any other group in the country.
I wondered what they thought of what was happening in front of them.
“Who comes before the Council?” the master of ceremonies asked.
The man he was addressing looked about thirty, though I knew he was far older. He had dark hair, the polished good looks of someone who spends time cultivating them, and a half smile that rarely left his face. His robes were black, which I was sure had been a deliberate choice. This was Morden, one of the most powerful Dark mages I’d ever met. If the mages sitting in those chairs were the strongest amongst the Light faction, Morden was their counterpart. “One who is summoned,” Morden replied. He didn’t raise his voice, but it carried to the edges of the room.
“How do you come before the Council?” the master asked.
“In humility and in obedience,” Morden said.
“Why do you come before the Council?”
“I wish only to serve the Council, in heart and mind and soul.”
“Where would you serve?”
Morden’s voice stayed quite steady. “On the Council, should it please the Councillors.”
I heard a slight murmur go through the crowd. It was as if they hadn’t quite believed that this was really going to happen until they heard the words. I’d read the histories: in all the thousands of years that the Council of Britain had existed, a Dark mage had never sat upon it. Until now.
The ritual continued, question and answer, each exchange scripted. I took the opportunity to look around, scanning the faces of the mages I could see. A few looked thoughtful. More looked angry. I didn’t get the sense that the Light mages here were happy about what was happening today, and as I looked into the futures in which I approached people, I saw that anger turned towards me. Of the ones who recognised me, all too many saw another Dark mage like Morden. They were looking for someone to blame, and I didn’t think that was going to go away. If anything, as the reality of Morden’s presence on the Council sank in, it would get worse—
A voice whispered into my ear. You know where you belong.
I jumped, twisted. There was no one behind me. Mages around me turned to look at me, frowning. I looked from side to side, heart hammering. There was no one there, and the futures were clear.
But I’d known that voice. It had been Richard’s.
On the stage below, the master of ceremonies turned from Morden to the sitting Councillors. “Who will accept this mage to the Council?”
Everyone fell silent, watching. All eyes were on the nine men and the one woman sitting on those chairs. One of the men was the first to move, straightening his dark red robes before unhurriedly rising to his feet. A moment later, a second stood, followed by a third. One at a time, slowly and deliberately, each of them rose . . . except for Levistus.
The chamber was dead quiet, and I held my breath. Everyone’s eyes were on Levistus. An election to the Council had to be unanimous. The appointment would have been decided over behind closed doors, but any member, at least technically, had veto power. If Levistus stayed seated, Morden would be refused his seat. Levistus would almost certainly be removed from the Council himself in the aftermath, but he could do it . . .
Levistus stayed where he was, and I sensed the futures fork, just briefly. Then he rose to his feet. His pale eyes regarded Morden without expression.
“It is agreed,” the master of ceremonies said. “Mage Morden, step forward.”
Morden stepped forward and bowed his head. The master of ceremonies picked up a gold chain, twin to the ones worn by the ten mages standing behind him. The chain was plain and heavy, almost simple compared to the artworks around the chamber, but it symbolised far more. He placed the chain around Morden’s neck. “You are raised to the Junior Council, that it may further endure,” the master of ceremonies recited. “May the Light guide you.”
Morden straightened. His right hand came up to touch the chain, holding one of the links between thumb and forefinger for a second, then he nodded to the master of ceremonies and w
alked to one of the empty chairs. He sat, and the other ten sat as well. Now there were eleven.
A faint murmur went through the room, then died away into silence. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—an outcry, maybe. Instead everyone just watched. You read a lot about history being made; you don’t often see it happen. Sitting on his Council seat, Morden surveyed the crowd. I was hidden away at the back, yet his eyes found me. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to give me a tiny smile and a nod of the head.
I looked away sharply. The master of ceremonies was announcing something else, but I didn’t listen. Instead I found myself scanning the faces around me, looking from one mage to another. None were familiar, and it took a moment before I realised who I was looking for. Richard. I couldn’t see him, or sense his presence, yet somehow I knew he was there.
Caldera’s wrong, I thought. Things are changing. I turned and walked out of the Conclave, leaving the Council behind. The Keepers on the door watched me go.
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